


Chances

by afreakingdork



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Met as Children, Angst, Drama, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Trauma, F/M, Follows Along Canon with Minute Differences, Friendship, Implied abuse, John Never Marries Mary, M/M, Skipping Between Canon Scenes, implied rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 05:20:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18004577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afreakingdork/pseuds/afreakingdork
Summary: John still wonders about the chances sometimes: the chances of Mike re-introducing him to Sherlock, the chances that he would need a flat mate the same time as Sherlock would need the same. At one time he would have wondered if the arrangement was going to work out. They were long past that moment now. As children, they had not even made it so much as a day before they were close friends. The two had quickly picked up this same tradition as adults. In a way it was kismet, when they had first met he had protected Sherlock, and after being reunited he continued the trend.





	1. Chapter 1

A sickly snort fills the air, and rouses Sherlock back to consciousness. He finds himself lying on the ground. As he peers downward, he can see another child squatting at his feet.

"Are you ok?" The boy asks curiously.

The voice registers as genuine. Sherlock's eyes darted around the boy, taking him in. He seems to be about eight years old. A small stream of blood oozing from his nose seems to explain the sound that woke him. The boy looks disheveled, with bits of grass speckling his mused hair. His shirt is un-tucked and also spattered with some blood. An old grimy bandage clings to one of two grass stained knees above ripped socks. His face is composed of a shy but comforting smile. As Sherlock observes him the smile widens, revealing a gap in the bottom row of his teeth.

"If you’re wondering, I'm alright... You look rough though mate, can I get you something for your eye?" The boy continues to drone on.

Sherlock is suddenly aware of the blurry gap in his own vision. He tests lifting his head and finds his muscles strain in protest, the sensation rings in his ears. He winces weakly at the pain and tries to stand unsuccessfully, opting to hunch over.

"You know I heard if you leave a black eye unchecked it can swell up and you have to cut your eyelid open or you'll never see again!" The child threw up his arms dramatically.

"That's absurd..." Sherlock replies annoyed.

"Maybe that's just a movie…" The boy trails off thoughtfully before leaning forward and gingerly lifting Sherlock's chin. "Hmm no eye cutting then,” Sherlock can swear the boy almost sounds disappointed, “Ice?"  The boy’s chuckle seems pleasant enough.  

"Who are you?" Sherlock is at his wits end.

"Oh, sorry," the boy straightened, preparing for a proper introduction, "the name’s John Watson. You know maybe if you hadn't said that bit about Billy's parents’ divorce, he wouldn't have beaten you up!"

"How can one get a better deduction without practice?" Sherlock huffed in a rehearsed tone. John tilted his head in confusion. "Besides, it was written all over his face, anyone with half a brain could see it." 

"I must only have half then…" John's mouth formed a thin line. "Stop stalling! I know where we can get you some ice!" He reached out, grabbed Sherlock's hand without warning, and pulled him to his feet.

"Are we not going to see the nurse?" Sherlock didn't resist as they moved toward the cafeteria.

"You sure aren’t fighting to see one," John seemed to muse. "Would you call that a _deduction_? Wait, isn't that what we do in math?"

Sherlock stared dumbfounded at the idiocy of this boy. He attempted to roll his eyes and was immediately reminded of his injury, regretting the gesture.  

The cafeteria was unnervingly quiet. With lunch past, a lone janitor toiled in the corner.  John led Sherlock up to the food counter. After releasing his hand, John grasped the counter tightly, lifting himself onto the tips of his toes.

"Miss!!" John's sudden exclamation causes Sherlock to jump.

The lunch lady turned unperturbed, years serving exclaiming children having hardened her. Surprise did take her though as she got a look at the pair. She evaluated John with a concerned tone, "John, what happened to you?” as she moved her eyes lost their warmth, “Sherlock, again?"

Sherlock couldn’t help but roll his eyes, regardless of the consequences.

 "Oh, well, you know...” John trails off, trying to mediate the situation, “Can we have a bag of ice, please?" He squirmed nervously, but beamed a bright persuasive smile at her.

"John Watson, a true angel! He’s always helping those around him, you know Sherlock? I shouldn’t be surprised to find him helping you!" She gave Sherlock a cheeky smile, but moved back to John quickly, "How is your mother then, John? Is she still having us over for bridge Thursday? She'll be a wreck when she sees those clothes, but I bet she'd be proud to hear about her little solider protecting the weak!" Sherlock imagined the women as a fly, buzzing around gathering an ice bag for them.  

John nodded appropriately. "Thanks miss.  I'm sure Mum is still having all the ladies over."

Sherlock looked between them with a raised brow; he couldn’t understand how John could converse so calmly in this dull manner.

 After what seemed like an eternity she relinquished an ice bag wrapped in paper towels. "Now you boys stay out of trouble!" The woman says with a huff.

"We will!" John snatched the bag and Sherlock's hand again, dragging them out of the cafeteria and back behind the building where he had originally found him. John studied the bag for a moment before holding it up to Sherlock’s eye.  He pauses just shy of it before asking, "Ready?"

"Get on with it." Sherlock grumbled as the bag made contact. His face contorted in pain. He tries to regain control and moves to hold the bag himself. "So are you really _my solider_? I didn't see you there when it was happening." Sherlock shot John a bored look with a sharp edged tone.

John shifted with embarrassment, "I… well… you're right, I didn't realize what was happening until I saw you running away from them. I stopped them from chasing after you though! But they jumped me instead.  No winners! We roughed each other up." John cracked a big smile. "I do rugby you know? It ended pretty quick."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "Why?" 

"My dad put me in rugby cause I’m ‘scrappy’? Not too sure about the meaning, but I think that’s why."

"Idiot! Why'd you help me?" Sherlock could feel his emotions getting away from him.

"Oh, I see. We aren't really friends, huh?  I mean I've seen you around... you seemed I don't know... lonely? Or you look it, always being alone and all. Even though you act mad, you seem pretty down..." John's eyes darted off to the side in worry.

"No. All this skirting around the subject is unappealing. Get on with it. If you have something to say, then say it." Sherlock spoke with a hardened tone.

"’Course you'd want the truth." John straightened up a bit. "It's like Billy's lot. While they put on and act all tough, it’s really ‘cause he’s just sad about his situation. You seem like that. Maybe ‘cause all the years of people like Billy going after you?"John mumbled, embarrassed at being so bold.

"Interesting thought. Some words have more than one meaning, by the way. So yes, that would be a deduction. Observing really," Sherlock looked to be analyzing data floating around him, making John wary.

John stretched, sore from his scuffle. "We missed most of class now anyway, want to come over and play?"

"Depends on the game. My parents would enjoy me getting some social time though, I suppose. It could get them off my back for a few days... Wait, didn't that woman say your mother would be mad about your clothes?"

John grinned wide, making him seem proud of the gap in his teeth. "You caught me, I'm using you so she won't yell as much... maybe she’ll think we are the ones that fought!"

"It'd be your fault then," Sherlock pulled the ice bag away from his eye, presenting his injury. "I'll have her make you apologize to me and then we'll have to play whatever I want!"

"Oh no!" John said with feigned fear. "As long as we don't have to play fairy princess, I'm fine! I get enough of that with Harry."

"Oh, so you have a deranged brother, too?" Sherlock chuckled.

"Sister," John shared in the laugh.

"Always something..." Sherlock gave with a tut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a fic I wrote back on 2/14/2014. I have edited it to fit more in line with my current less cringey writing style. I wrote it based on an idea that someone had had in the fandom at the time. I asked her if I could use the idea. She said that was fine and she would love to read it when I finished it. I am sorry I lost this fic for so long. Whoever you are, where ever you are. This fic is for you~<3


	2. Chapter 2

"Honestly John, how much longer could this possibly take?" Sherlock huffed loudly. The duo sat on the floor of Sherlock’s room, surrounded by various fragments of school materials.  Sherlock made an exasperated sound and stood. He let himself tumble backward dramatically as if he were struck. A science weekly magazine he'd been skimming flies into the air after him and covers his face in one swift performance.

"Well maybe if you helped me with my homework after finishing yours, you wouldn't have to wait," John griped, picking up half his open text book and slamming it shut with a resounding thud. John inches forward and joins Sherlock in his collapsed heap. He turns away from the dark haired teen and fiddles with the edge of his half finished homework sheet just within reach.

“It's simple polynomials. Besides, it's your homework, you do it!" Sherlock blows dramatically causing the magazine pages to flutter.  

"Why do we even do homework together!? How are we even in the same grade!?" John whined, thumping his head slightly against the worn carpet.  

"Because according to the school system while I may be academically ready to move on, my social skills are quite lacking," Sherlock lets a small yawn escape him. "We do homework together because after eight years you've grown fond of my companionship, or you're waiting for some of my brilliance to rub off on you. I’ll let you choose whichever helps you finish faster."

"Now I'm definitely going to take as long as possible." John lifts his head and stares dully at the book he’d left across the room. Sherlock let out a little whine, but heard no response.

"John," Sherlock says in a clear tone, begging for attention. Several minutes passed with nary a sound. Sherlock finds the confines of the magazine stifling and rips it from his face roughly. He shoots a pout in John’s direction. A few more minutes pass with little result. He decides he can wait no longer. "Fine, let me see, I'll help." John rolls over, moving closer to his textbook and out of Sherlock’s reach.   

"Really John!?" The dark haired teen huffs. Sherlock sits up and swings his arms out wide to catch the other. With keen reflexes, John dodges, moving swiftly out of reach.  John reaches his target and grasps his book tightly, trying to hide a wry smile.

"You are being ridiculous!" Sherlock shouts and John can’t stifle a small giggle. The sound set Sherlock in irritated motion and he dives for the text. John attempts to pivot away, but Sherlock overextends his arms, throwing off his own momentum. It causes him to resoundly crash into John and they both collapse onto the floor. Sherlock props himself up and glares down at his shorter counterpart.  

"I don't give you enough attention do I?" John smiles comfortably up at him. The sight causes something to pull in Sherlock’s chest, but as he looks down to inspect, he finds the math book caught firmly between them.

"Ahem!” Sherlock clears his throat with fake flourish. “I simply misjudged the distance between us." Sherlock moves across the room studying the sensation that tugs at him. He finds himself distanced and near a looming bookcase. He always did find safety in books. "You see my intended trajectory was at least three-quarters to the right and..."

John laughed and the sensation in Sherlock’s chest bubbled up again. He glared downward, as if it was a tangible object he could study.

“We can’t always calculate everything correctly! Speaking of which…” John holds up his homework sheets, flapping them in his hands. "You said you'd help, right? If I can’t get through the maths portion, it’s going to make the science more difficult and you know biology is where I excel…"

"O-Of course." Sherlock straightens himself, finally brushing the feeling aside.

 

* * *

 

 

John sat on the floor of his room humming as he packed a small overnight bag. He wondered about the abysmal state of snacks at the Holmes household. Sherlock’s mother was always trying to use the two of them as guinea pigs for her new odd recipes. He figured his mother must have something more delicious hiding in the kitchen for her weekly biddy meetings. John stood and looked toward his door. He decided that she wouldn’t miss a few treats and snuck quietly toward the kitchen.  

"Dear, we need to discuss it, we can't keep skirting around it!" The sudden whimper in his mother's voice caused John to pause just outside the kitchen’s entrance.   

"Can't it wait until he leaves? Honestly, dear…" His father's voice replied in a bored manner.

"That's precisely the problem! It's Sherlock this and Sherlock that. The boy hardly mentions anyone else. He doesn't even bring anyone else over after school!  Sherlock's a fine lad, so quick, a genius, but the way they act toward each other. It’s like they have no one else in their lives! Kids these days! It's atrocious. God forbid, is it already time for us to be worrying about _that_..." Her voice dropped off and then came back softer, "Gay, our son... God help us." John listened as the statement was followed by a rush of air, similar to that of someone collapsing into a chair. "I don't know if I can handle it..."

John turned curtly and ran back into his room. He roughly hoisted his bag onto his shoulders, shaken.  He made his way silently to the doorway. He opened the door carefully and as he stepped through the threshold, yelled back, "I'm off! Bye Mum! Bye Dad! See you tomorrow!" He rushed out the door, hearing the faint strangles of confused goodbyes. He gathered his bike and pedaled hard, focusing on the sound.

 

* * *

 

 

At Sherlock's house he tossed his bike into their grass and knocked squarely on the door. John realized how tense he was and tried to even his breathing. Sherlock's mother answered the door and immediately barraged him, tittering about this and that. John responded with appropriate calculated murmurs, darting for Sherlock’s room as soon as she released him.

"John you're 43 minutes early, you'll have to wait I'm in the middle of an experiment," Sherlock said, donned with lab goggles and standing over a large chunk of ground chuck. Electrodes spiraled off the poor helpless piece of meat and conjoined it with a large, daunting battery.  John left the door open and dropped his pack onto the floor. Instead of returning to his experiment Sherlock sensed something amiss. "What's wrong? Something's wrong..." Sherlock begins to remove his goggles, preparing himself to deduce the issue.

John interjects, not in the mood to be subjected to Sherlock’s analysis. "My mother thinks I’m gay…"

Inches before his extended foot entered the beam of light spilling out of Sherlock's room, Mycroft halts, brow raised with intrigue.

Sherlock's eyes dart around, sifting for a result. "Seems familiar, a slang?” Sherlock peeks at John, finally removing his goggles completely.

"I don’t understand what you’re missing…?" John says with building frustration.

Sherlock senses something else instead. "Mycroft, you trying to be stealthy is like an elephant trying to do the same!" Sherlock growled and stormed the door.

"Homosexual, brother dear, break it down, tata." Mycroft dashed down the hall and Sherlock slammed the door shut.

"Mad! He's mad! Always hovering about and going through my things! Checking up on me!! Spouting off random riddles telling me to deduce the answer! One word!" Sherlock inhaled deeply and shouted "Unoriginal!" at the top of his lungs. He turns to John, beginning his analysis."Homosexual, homos being Greek for same, and sex, sexus, being latin for the obvious... oh," realization struck him slowly. "That's gay, romantic attraction to members of the same gender... John?"

Sherlock finally focused on the figure beside him. John’s lips formed a tight line and he kept his eyes glued to the floor. "John, who said that to you? From what I gather it must have been-"

"Enough! Can you just stop for one second! You are just a constant state of guessing this and that. Deduce!  Deduce!  Deduce! And always out loud for god’s sake! I'm not your journal to record everything you do! I don't need a commentary!" Sherlock's eyes were wide, of course he had angered John in the past, but the one thing he thought he could always count on was the bright beaming impressive look he can conjure on the shorter teen’s face. John always found his deductions brilliant.

"I'm sick of it! No! I'm sick of you, I...I can't spend all my time with just you!" John balls his fists up, knuckles turning white. He stands still for a moment before turning and storming off, leaving his belongings behind, forgotten. Sherlock stood stunned. His heart felt like it was beating slower, everything was beating slower. His mother appeared, having seen John storm out. She moved through syrup over to him and mouthed a question. Time suddenly returned and he turned to her coldly. “Nothing, I have an experiment to attend to,” he responded robotically.


	3. Chapter 3

"Are we sure this is the best decision?"

Sherlock's mother, father, and Mycroft sat around the kitchen table. The tense atmosphere weighed upon all of them.

"He already wasn't the best student, but since... the incident this might be the best option for him, might straighten him up a bit."

_The incident_. The last time Sherlock spoke to John was when he dashed out of their house. After the initial assessment, Sherlock thought surely John would realize that his parents were being absurd. What bearing do they have on his romantic predilections? Sherlock found himself studying the known information. John's mother was always gossiping and crying over the most inane things. He determines that John must have overheard her prattling on about the two of them being so close. He cursed the woman’s audacity to do something while her son was still in the house. It’s as if she wanted John to hear her.

Time taunted Sherlock and began to slip at an excruciating rate. Several weeks without a word from John began to diminish hope.  Sherlock tried to calculate the probability of John's return, but was disappointed in the results. He found himself even more disappointed when a box of his belongings that resided as John’s home suddenly appeared on his doorstep. After a month passed, his parents tried to meet with John's to come to some sort of compromise. They were rebuffed and the probability dropped to below 10%, sealing up not only Sherlock's hope but any sentiment he had left.

The incident convinced him that emotions were superfluous. He had hypothesized as much previously, but now felt reassured. His existence began to rotate between three things: the rush of a puzzle, unending boredom, and irritation for the incompetence of others. This cycle made life much easier and Sherlock began to function like a well-oiled machine. Problems arose quickly, however. John filled a void that Sherlock had not realized existed. Without a partner in kind he found little entertainment in ordinary people and the things they created to entertain themselves. As the months passed and nothing provided solace for him, he grew more manic and his parents were at their wits end.

Hidden in the hall, he listened lazily to the _secret_ family meeting. Boarding school was not such a terrible thought. At least he would be away from Mycroft. His parents’ pity and disappointment were easy enough to ignore, but Mycroft was a different animal. Mycroft had taught him deduction and gave him various puzzles to solve; it had once served as a suitable release for a child burdened with massive intellect. Mycroft hadn't calculated that Sherlock would need companionship.

Deciding the reasoning was sound, Sherlock stepped into the kitchen. His mother and father jolted, startled. Mycroft just turned and stared inquisitively. "I'll go." A clean simple break is best.

 

* * *

 

 

The new confines of his boarding school proved to be interesting for several months. Dozens of new students and teachers to harass and access to a new chemistry lab that almost made him dance with delight. However, his love of dance was not something he cared to share, and after the newness of his confinement faded he grew bored once again.

Sherlock mused, 'What do troubled youth do when tired of their plight?' As he winded around the dormitory building he began to formulate a hypothesis and a simulation he could run to illicit results. He came upon his data; three particularly rogue students, smoking in a small staircase leading down to a boiler room. "May I join you?" He asked them, trying to put on a cordial tone.

"Do whatever the fuck you want kid," one of them responded.

Sherlock plopped down on a step near one of them. He studied them closely. Sherlock began with the student closest to him, looking a bit portly and wrapped up in a sweatshirt. He deemed this test subject 'Dalton.' Names were really of little importance, he akined it to naming laboratory mice. In the long run it would save him time assigning them names he could remember.  Dalton noticed the prolonged stare and offered him a cigarette. Sherlock readily obliged. He steeled himself, recalling data in the recesses of his mind, ready to start hacking at his first puff. He was pleasantly surprised to find the affect only mild and easy to contain any spasms in his esophagus. All those years of burning chemicals in the confines of his room must have had a part in it.

He released a smoke cloud, bringing his gaze to the next subject leaning against the railing. He was skinny and pockmarked with acne. 'Thomson' was a clear designation as he was already only a step away from being plum pudding. Thomson made a face, clearly trying to intimidate Sherlock. It was an amusing reaction. He then turned to the final boy. He believed this was the one who told him that he had free reign to do as he'd like. He deemed this final subject a clear 'Rutherford.' 

"So Rutherford, you were beaten by, not your father, your posture doesn't support strong male figure, your mother's boyfriend? It was merciless until your mother grew tired of lies and hospital bills, I'd say from your clothes, and shipped you off here. Must have been brutal if this was the cheaper decision."

"Excuse me?" The boy responds, stunned.

"Next, Thomson, molestation I would say by the way you carry yourself. A relative perhaps, not necessarily parents, they are trying to bribe you into comfort, but a relative they can't get out from under, a rich uncle perhaps?"

Thomson managed a meager wince.  

"And Dalton. Really? Eating is such a terrible vice; I'd like something a bit more interesting. You're cared for enough, newer clothes, washed well, but not mended well. You seemed to be a second thought, statistically speaking. From that you were probably an accident child that dampened their parents’ fun until they realized they could just send you away."

Dalton shot up fast, but Rutherford interjected and moved forward "Kid this is about to go real bad for you…" His movements sent the others into pack formation. Dalton dug into his pocket for what Sherlock could only assume was a pocket knife. ‘Failed camping trips with father or boy scouts?’ Sherlock wonders. Sherlock released a thin cloud of smoke and clicked his tongue. 

"While it might not seem like it, I'm not here to pick a fight.  I just want to know if my facts are straight before we continue. Your reactions are enough, I suppose. I could get used to these by the way, thank you, Dalton." He looked over his cigarette and licked his lips. "Oh sit down, you'll want to listen to my proposition." Tentatively, the three exchanged bewildered looks. Rutherford looked intrigued enough and gave a curt nod. The other two returned to their original positions. "I'm interested in your coping mechanisms. Not the regular ones that the general population employ…" He glances sideways at Dalton, "…but the more radical. I believe you understand what I am alluding to?"

The group exchange looks again. Rutherford, the alpha, is once again the first to speak. "This kid really does have a death wish…" He eyes Sherlock suspiciously.

"Man, Oliver, let's humor him! Never seen one like him. We get the occasional thrill seeker but, this kid has seriously lost it. Let's have a bit of fun!" Thomson's eyes glint darkly.

"Honestly, can you see this kid having a go with The White Nurse? Those cheeks bones would cut glass in a couple weeks!" Dalton seemed to be easily sucked into Thomson's excitement.

"Well?" Sherlock looked upon Rutherford expectantly; their perpetuation for destruction must be why he's the leader. He keeps the other two in check.

"Ah fuck, don't say I didn't warn you!"

 

* * *

 

 

Addiction turned out to be quite costly and somehow time consuming. Wishing to free up more time to continue his newfound study, Sherlock applied himself enough to graduate early. At times, Sherlock wished it were that clear cut, drugs and studying during his tenure of secondary education. To this day the Carl Powers incident still haunts him, and now at 17, and loosed on the streets of London, Sherlock made a name for himself that the general population was oblivious too.

Winding through a back alley haze one day, Sherlock isn't particularly intrigued to find a collapsed body. It happens often in his habitat. People inoculate and collapse, simple.  Even in a fog the body looked overly still though. Feeling the need to inspect, Sherlock kneels beside the body and is mildly surprised to find no pulse. He is more surprised to hear a sound in his peripherals, as if he is trapped in a fish tank and someone is tapping on the glass.  The assailant turns out to be a hysterical woman and he realizes the sound she was making wasn't tapping, but quite loud sobbing. From the mobile in her hand he judged she must have just called the police. ‘Did she call on me or had she been there when I stumbled upon the body?’ The fish bowl distorted his world and made it so small he couldn't be sure. What he was sure of though, was that something was missing. ‘Oh, that's it.’  He darted around the woman and back out the alley.

When he returned the police had come and made a mess of the area.

"No. No. No. N.O.!  I'm not in the mood for another sick teen trying to get off on a glimpse of a dead body." A moody police officer steps right in front of him as he reaches the crime scene tape.

"I already _glimpsed_ the body, not the point though. Don't you want the murder weapon?" Sherlock held up a long bloody metal rod and was immediately apprehended.

 

* * *

 

 

"Manic!"

"Nice to see you too, brother!" Sherlock rolled his eyes as Mycroft escorted him out of the police station. "Thanks ever so much for the get out of jail free card! Winning that game of Monopoly all those years ago really paid off!" The officers eyed the two as they passed with looks of disgust. Mycroft's cordial attitude evaporated the second the door shut behind them.

"Enough, it's been a year, _one_ year!! When will you have had enough of this 'my friend left me' nonsense and come back to reality?!"

"You're the one spouting nonsense if you think this has anything to do with something that happened about a year ago! Aren't you glad to have finally found me!? The dysfunctional brother you try to hide away so your record will be spotless upon your entrance into parliament!"

"You can't even say his name. Sherlock enough, I can let your drugs and ignorance go, as long as you stay under the radar, but getting yourself arrested because you wanted to solve some puzzle? This isn't a board game. Grow up." Mycroft adjusted his gloves and then slipped down the stoop of the station. "He's going away you know. Army I believe, I wasn't paying too close attention."

Sherlock's lips formed a tight line and he refused to move. "Makes sense, what better way to become a doctor without having to burden your family with medical school bills."

"I think it's time you considered some means of rehabilitation. I can't continue to keep ignoring your cries for help, Shirley." Mycroft then gave him an odd smile, which sent chills through Sherlock's spine.

"We’ll see."

"We will, I'll be in touch." Mycroft stepped into a long blacked-out vehicle and disappeared. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief and sat down on the steps.

"Always helping those around him. A doctor, huh?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Dalton - best known for introducing the atomic theory into chemistry, and for his research into colour blindness
> 
> J. J. Thomson - first proposed the plum pudding model as one of several scientific models of the atom
> 
> Ernest Rutherford - revised the plum pudding model and proposed the Rutherford model, also known as planetary model as a model which tried to describe an atom


	4. Chapter 4

"John! John Watson!" John turned as an unfamiliar portly gentleman approached him with an extended hand. "Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together."

"Yes. Sorry, yes. Mike," John awkwardly shook the man’s hand. "Hello, hi."

"Yeah, I know. I got fat!" Mike says with a genial tone.

John shook his head slightly, pursing his lips, "No."

Thankfully, Mike continued unperturbed, "I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?"

"I got shot." John winced slightly through an awkward smile.

The uncomfortable situation did, in fact, pass. Pleasantries turned into coffees. Coffees turned into an afternoon catching up with an old friend.

"Come on, who’d want _me_ for a flat mate?" John chuckled honestly. Mike responded with his own chuckle. After the few hours he had spent with Mike, John found it odd that the other would join in his self-depreciation. "What?"

"Well you're the second person to say that to me today," Mike says, swirling the remnants of his cup.

 

* * *

 

 

Being among the lab equipment brought John a vague sense of familiarity. He couldn’t place the sensation, but it made him feel unsteady. He wondered why he’d let Mike coerce him into meeting some stranger. At first glance, John’s predicament seemed to solve itself. John needed a flat mate, and Mike had someone in mind, but now that the prospect seemed tangible, he became increasingly wary.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine." A deep voice echoed from the other side of the laboratory.

John stared, bewildered. The years suddenly came flooding back to him. He felt the rush knock him more off balance and he gripped his cane tighter. He fumbled with his free hand, reaching for his back pocket absentmindedly, "Er, here. Use mine."

Sherlock had glanced at them upon entering, something nagged at the back of his mind, but he had chosen to ignore it, opting instead to continue his experiment.  He now found himself staring directly at the nagging sensation straight in the face. He has long since buried those feelings. He focuses on steeling himself, taking the phone, "Oh, thank you."  He types a quick message into it, reminding himself that the object is nothing more than plastic and some small wiring. He tries to apply that logic to John, a friendship that had merely passed when they were children. "How do you feel about the violin?"

John snapped out of his stupor, "I'm sorry, what?"

"I picked up the violin, it helps me think. Now, sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other." He tried to look beyond John to keep his composure. It’s been so long since he’s had to be so keenly aware of himself.  

"Sherlock..." John murmured, at a loss. At first glance this wouldn’t be the worst arrangement; it was Sherlock. He felt the flood of memories overtake him again, but this time he refused to let them breach the shore. Decades now separated their past and this very moment. He straightened, dutifully. "Who said anything about flat mates?"

Mike looked between the two bewildered. He hadn’t known the two were familiar with each other. John initially reacted to Sherlock as most did. Mike searched through their conversation from the day, wondering if he had told John Sherlock’s name. He couldn’t recall so he began to ask, "John, do you-?"

"I did.” Sherlock interrupts as if Mike never opened his mouth, “Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flat mate for. Now here you are, not such a huge leap. Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." Sherlock approached John, standing tall. He offered the phone back to the smaller man. "We’ll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o’clock. Sorry, gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." There had to be a small distraction, he couldn't keep up the charade much longer.

"Are you sure that's it?" John took his phone back and watched as Sherlock made for the door.

The question causes Sherlock to pause, "If you're referring to _that_ , its past. Do you have a problem? Besides your leg I mean, if you would call it that. Your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic, quite correctly, I’m afraid. Also do you still not get on with Harry? She's worried about you but you won’t go to her for help. Maybe you don’t approve of her? Has she possibly become an alcoholic? With your mother, it seems like she would have the propensity to." Sherlock then moves out the door, but pops his head back in smugly. He was determined to show John that he had not let the words of the past deter him. "The address is 221B Baker Street, afternoon John." Sherlock left with a wink, and John looked down at his cane and then to Mike.

"He's always been like that." John tries to keep his voice even while giving Mike a weak smile.

 

* * *

 

 

John still wonders about the chances sometimes: the chances of Mike re-introducing him to Sherlock, the chances that he would need a flat mate the same time as Sherlock would need the same. At one time he would have wondered if the arrangement was going to work out. They were long past that moment now. As children, they had not even made it so much as a day before they were close friends. The two had quickly picked up this same tradition as adults. In a way it was kismet, when they had first met he had protected Sherlock, and after being reunited he continued the trend.

John figured that with all the probability in play, he should have sensed that his luck would run out at some point. The universe would want retribution for rejecting such a destined relationship. After their first meeting, neither man referenced the incident again. They treated their relationship as if it were new. John wonders what the chances were that he was to be punished for their feigned ignorance in the form of The Great Game. John tried to keep his hands from shaking as he sat across from this therapist. He knew he needed to talk about it. Or really, she had told him he had needed to talk about it. He can hear Sherlock’s voice, buzzing in the back of his mind, telling him to get a new therapist. If John weren’t so afraid of closing his eyes, he might screw them shut in an attempt to shut the disembodied voice up. Talking about it was supposed to help him face the tragedy, but he had already faced it. He has to relive the moment every time he closes his eyes; Sherlock jumping off that damned building. John scrubs at his face until his cheeks are red.  This is punishment for leaving that day back when they were 16. Punishment for whatever he didn't protect Sherlock from in the years in-between. Punishment for not protecting him against Moriarty. He chokes back a sob. John never allows himself to give into them, not even when alone. "I still can't, not yet."   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's where the story gets just a little bit messy. The time breaks will now be signifying the episodes of the series usually. They can pertain to single episodes of even entire seasons. What happens in the canon episodes is essentially what happens during the breaks. We get to see the changes in-between.


	5. Chapter 5

"Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers, suddenly one is aware of staring into ze face of an old friend." The voice of the waiter floated through the air.

"No look, seriously," John lifts his eyes from Mary to the 'waiter' and shifts from irritation to disbelief. "Could you just..."

"Interesting thing, a tuxedo. Lends distinction to friends, and anonymity to waiters," a deep voice responds pointedly.

John shifts, beginning to turn to Mary while tears well up. To this day he refuses to let them fall; he instead ducks his head to summon courage before getting on his feet weakly. John can faintly hear the sound of Mary asking what's going on, but everything's washed out. It’s as if he’s underwater, so deep that the pressure is intense, forcing him to be seated once again. Sherlock begins to ramble, but it is also drowned out. John can see him conversing with Mary, ruining his moment. The final step in the recovery process is acceptance. He had been so close, about to pronounce the final statement that would allow him to accept Sherlock’s death fully and move on, and he appears. It’s as if Sherlock refuses to let John move on. The tidal wave crashes down, equalizing the pressure in his ears and leaving behind the foam of anguish and anger. He hears the tail end of a sentence ending in 'apology.'

"Two years..." John begins, cursing the weakened tone of his own voice, "Two years... I thought, I thought you were dead. You let me grieve, hmm? How could you do that? How?!"

As John's breathing intensifies Sherlock intercepts, "Wait, before you do anything that you might regret... um, one question? Just let me ask one question. Um...” Sherlock watches as John’s mercury level rises, but it’s as if he can’t stop the words tumbling out of his mouth. "Are you really going to keep that?!"  The words come out as an exclamation. He finds himself gesturing to the moustache adorning John’s face. The top of the thermometer explodes under the pressure and John hurls himself at Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

 

It took three different dining establishments and John was nowhere near any calmer. He unsuccessfully tried to hail a cab and a very small part of his brain realized that he must look completely wrecked and no cabbie would take a chance on him. Mary moved in his stead and placed John near the door of a kabob shop they had just exited. Just as John felt he had a moment to breathe, Sherlock dared to come close again.

"I don't understand, I said sorry. Isn't that what you're supposed to do?" Sherlock winced, nursing a bloody nose with a napkin. John didn't dare look at him, choosing to stare at the street with disbelief. "Don't propose if you're not sure." The phrase hung in the air and John slowly turned to face Sherlock menacingly. Before he could open his mouth Sherlock interjected again, "I understand that it typically takes a certain amount of nerve for one to propose to another. From what I gathered you appeared to be too subdued. That could have to do with your nerves, steeled by active duty, but I know you better than that. You were acting almost as if you had to do it." Sherlock trailed off and caught Mary gesturing to them, having successfully hailed a cab. "…Just keep that in mind, I suppose. The real focus should be the case John, the case!" He turned swiftly, his coat spinning around him as he dashed off. John numbly moved to join Mary.

 

* * *

 

 

The chances continued to haunt John. It was as if he at one point was moving towards a normal life, but the meteor that is Sherlock Holmes crash landed and threw off his trajectory. He would now spin out endlessly in a space filled with absurd possibilities. He mulled over the analogy in his spare time; he decided that instead of crashing into him, Sherlock must have created such an impact that the two must now be celestially linked. John wonders why he continues to fall for Sherlock’s ruses every single time. He knows the taller man is a master manipulator, bested only by his older brother. To some extent, John found himself seeing through the ruse more often, yet still played along. He wonders if that’s why Sherlock keeps going to more absurd means to wrangle him back. Only a mad man would use a bomb to get someone to forgive them. Even a master mathematician couldn’t calculate odds like that.

"Mr. Magnussen, I have been asked to intercede with you by Lady Elizabeth Smallwood on the matter of her husband’s letters," Sherlock spoke as John continued to muse.

It wasn't just the bomb, it was the bonfire, it was saving James Sholto, and it was returning thrill to his conjoined life with Sherlock. It was as if nothing could tear them apart. He had been furious to find Sherlock had returned to drugs, and yet he didn’t leave. Sherlock had even destroyed any thoughts he maintained about his marriage with Mary, but somehow their relationship continued on. Mary surprisingly understood his struggle. The couple decided to put the proposal on hold and John was now split between two flat mates, still torn.

"Some time ago you put pressure on her concerning those letters," Sherlock continued.

Now he stood with Sherlock against this Charles Augustus Magnussen. The level of pure unadulterated disdain that wells up in Sherlock when having to speak of the monster shocks even John. Sherlock had not acted this way with Moriarty. They now face the monstrous man standing in their, or rather Sherlock's, flat. Magnussen had an almost reptilian edge to him. John thought that if he were to watch close enough, he would see a forked tongue dart of out Magnussen’s mouth. John tried to follow the conversation closely, but Magnussen’s animal-like nature caused a feral revulsion in John that made it difficult. He was becoming increasingly aware that Sherlock was not on the winning side of the confrontation. When Magnussen moved between them, John felt as though his haunches had risen.

"You can do what you like here. No one’s ever going to stop you," Magnussen said, moving with a slither.

Rage boiled up inside of John, as he stood there helplessly. This monstrous reptile was urinating in their flat. He had to be stopped.   

 

* * *

 

 

John felt increasingly numb. The rock slide of turns his life had taken in a few short months were beginning to wear on him. He begins to think that chances don’t even exist anymore. Real numbers could no longer support something so astronomical. Mary had been clever, clever like Sherlock, but a murderer? John had had his suspicions since he saw the perfume bottle after Sherlock was shot. He can still barely process that Sherlock was shot. It all seemed so surreal. He wondered if this was still divine punishment. There had to be an end to his suffering and yet he saw the two of them in the corridor. He still held the coin in his hands. He turned it over in his fingers. John needed some time alone to process the absurd series of events. He hadn't gone far, just to an unfamiliar cafe. He wondered idly if Sherlock had somehow helped the owner get his cousin twice removed off some sort of assault charge. He mused that he might be able to get free coffee by association. At this point the chances of anything seemed tangible.   

He felt so disconnected to the world that he wasn’t even startled when his phone buzzed. He looked down at it coldly and clicked open an image file. His cheek twitched as he stared at an image of a bloody beaten body collapsed on its side on dirty concrete. 'Taking on a side murder when we have Magnussen on our plate?' He texted the sender back his thoughts. Sherlock must really think the case interesting. Barely a minute passed before another photo arrived. This image was taken from the back; it looked to be a man bent over, blood seeping from the numerous gashes that adorned his body. 'Moving the body? No, this can't be right...' He searched through his contacts and shot Sherlock a text to his current phone number.

 ‘Are you sending me these?’ John texted, attaching the photos. Sherlock's reply took longer than anticipated.

'No. Where are you?' Sherlock finally responded.  John scrunched up his face in confusion. Another text from Sherlock appeared, 'Never mind, come to the flat.' John pushed his chair gently back from the table and picked up his coffee. As he headed for the door, his phone buzzed a final time. 'Now.' Sherlock’s text read. Sherlock typically liked to punctuate his demands with an ‘if convenient’ to soothe John. Now that the phrase was missing, John sensed the urgency and rushed out.

Halfway back to the flat, he received another picture message from the unknown number. He slowed and wondered if he should open it now or wait for Sherlock. He decided now would be best, as by the time he reached the flat Sherlock would surely commandeer his phone. Clicking the image open, John's whole demeanor changed. His hand shook and it took all his strength not to simply drop his phone. The photo burned into John's retinas. The image now showed the man from the front. The man was unmistakably Sherlock. He was bent over some sort of vault horse, nude, battered beyond belief. Behind him stood a man throwing up a peace sign to the camera, his face covered by a black mask, his trousers down.

John ran the rest of the way to the flat. His erratic ascension up the stairs must have alerted Sherlock because he was at the door by the time John threw it open. John thrust the phone out to him, shaking. Sherlock stared at the screen for a moment before carefully taking it from John. His expression didn't change from a cold and unreadable one.

"We need to trace this number immediately. Were you followed? No, that wouldn't make sense, why take the time to-?" Sherlock’s mind began to move, but a loud exasperated noise from John gave him pause.  

"T-that was..." John stuttered weakly.

Sherlock's expression flattened and irritation bubbled up around the corners. "Sometimes I didn't have the best luck taking down Moriarty's web. It was far reaching and unbelievably tangled. The more I took down, the more often other branches were alerted, making it increasingly difficult to enter with stealth. This was nothing more than a poor miscalculation on my part."

"H-he's-" John couldn't bring himself to finish the statement. He felt his world spin and stumbled into the kitchen where he promptly vomited what little coffee he had drunken into the pail. Sherlock waited quietly, just outside. "You..." John panted heavily, recovering himself, "You told me about the web, you told me how Mycroft pulled you out of Serbia, but this! You never-"

"Do you honestly think I tell you everything? You've gotten even more ignorant with age than I would have thought." Sherlock responded curtly, pointedly keeping his gaze to the floor.

"You must...you must have scars…?" John murmured, wiping his chin with a cloth.

"Well of course, it wasn't just from that location. Pay attention, repeating myself is tiresome. I understand it's a disturbing image, but you are certainly overreacting John, it was almost two years ago." Sherlock turned, trying to move past the conversation.

"Overreacting... over two...? Overreacting!?” John sputtered at the idea. “I'd say you’re under-reacting! Have you ever dealt with it? No, you’ve never dealt with anything that's happened to you in your entire life!!" John shouted following the taller man closely.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "I did. Once. I found it troubling."

"No, no, you can't be referring to me?! To what happened between us as kids!? It pales in comparison to this Sherlock!" John’s voice cracked slightly at the volume. Sherlock stared back at him blankly. "And when I hit you...God! Sherlock!! I hit you so many times when you came back into my life," John latched onto a nearby chair and clung to the back of it. "…And waking up in that cell after I coerced you into drinking. You must have been-"

"What do you want John? Devastation? Do you want me to break down? Will that make you happy? Enough of this pity, it’s appalling," Sherlock spat back with venomous intent.

"Pity? No..." John reeled, digging his fingers into the cushioned fabric.

“It wasn't pity, but what was it?” Sherlock’s voice rang clear through John’s ears, but he was elsewhere being assaulted by random memories.

They rushed back to him: playing tag with Sherlock when they were nine, reading together back to back during exams, long talks that spanned until sunrise, beating up other kids while screaming "I'm not gay! I don't even talk to that kid anymore," coming back on leave from the army with no one to pick him up from the airport, gunshot, sitting at the table with a figment of the past, not gay, the fall, a crooked smile, gunshot, the photos from his phone. He looked up at Sherlock’s blurry image, "It's my fault."

"John, that's absurd, what are you-" Sherlock stammered, watching John spiral.

"Everything, I couldn't...I didn't protect you. I should have... I should have known! You said it was a magic trick!! I should have- I let you-" John choked back a sob, bubbling to the surface as they always did; his well overfilled with years of tears.  

Suddenly Sherlock was right in front of him, grabbing the front of his shirt to get his attention. "No!" He hissed, John could feel the spittle. "It wasn't your job! No one asked you to protect me! You've saved my life countless times. Can't you see? If you were there, with me taking down the web, if it had been you there instead of me, I-" Sherlock was shaking, it was so minute that John could barely see it. John reached up and covered Sherlock's fists with his hands. He met Sherlock’s gaze, it seemed wounded. The look was so raw John threw his arms around Sherlock's neck and hugged him tightly; the tears finally streaming down his face. Sherlock's knees buckled and John was able to support a slow descent to the ground.

 

* * *

 

 

"Since this is likely to be the last conversation I’ll have with John Watson would you mind if we took a moment?" Sherlock requested of his brother clearly, as one would request last rights.

Magnussen had sent the photos. He admitted to it when they had infiltrated Appledore. It had ignited something within Sherlock. When they collapsed to the ground outside, waiting for Mycroft to make his appearance and Magnussen had flicked John's face that something in Sherlock burst. Now here they stood, Sherlock being sent off. Sherlock idly wondered why John had never been shipped off, the smaller man had done the same to save him so many years ago.

"So, here we are." John spoke, breaking the silence. The pair both shuffled nervously. "Actually, I can’t think of a single thing to say."

"No, neither can I," Sherlock got out with a smile. He tried to reassure himself that they would at least finally have a clean and even slate.  

"The game is over." John said simply.

Sherlock firmly met John's gaze. "The game is never over John, but there may be some new players now. It’s okay. The East Wind takes us all in the end."

"What's that?" John asked.

"It’s a story my brother told me when we were kids. The East Wind, this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path. It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the Earth. That was generally me. He was a rubbish big brother." This makes them both smile a bit.

"So Eastern Europe, then?" John asks dutifully. Sherlock raises a brow in proud surprise. "Where they're sending you. That's the east wind?"

A small smile spread on Sherlock's lips. "Keep expanding your perception. Six months, my brother estimates. He’s never wrong."

"Then what?" John feels like he has always had to take the lead asking questions.

"Who knows?" They shuffle again unsure. "John, there’s something... I should say; I-I’ve meant to say it dozens of times and then never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now." John gulped with uncertainty and waited patiently for Sherlock to finish.

"Sherlock is actually a girl’s name, always has been." Just as John's brow was about to shift in confusion, Sherlock continued. "You're mother never had a reason to worry."  

John swung his body away and let out a laugh. "You... It's not. That’s ridiculous!" His chuckle deepened.

Sherlock reached out his hand, "To the very best of times, John."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"This is unbelievable." John stands beside Sherlock in a programming room at the BBC Television Centre.

"We'll figure it out, we just need to pinpoint where the feed originated from. They forced the feed to broadcast here by hijacking the waves. So we can hopefully acquire the location from here. Don't just stand there, I could use a bit of help, this would go faster if you’d just get over here." Sherlock turned his head abruptly from his position hunched over a switch board and was startled to find himself face to face with John. John closed the small distance between them and pressed their lips together. Sherlock’s brain malfunctioned. Just as he began to reboot and reciprocate John disappeared.

"Oh, I'll help." John smiled brightly. Sherlock blinked in stunned surprise. "Moriarty first, we’ll call that a partial payment."

"Right, I'm needed." Sherlock said with renewed enthusiasm.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The time breaks will now be signifying the episodes of the series usually. They can pertain to single episodes of even entire seasons. What happens in the canon episodes is essentially what happens during the breaks. We get to see the changes in-between.
> 
> If you want to interact with me and see a bunch of other fandom related stuff, visit me at:  
> Tumblr: afreakingdork.tumblr.com  
> Twitter: twitter.com/afreakingdork


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